


brothers in arms

by 1000_directions



Series: luckyverse [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brunch, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Gen, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Team as Family, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24904855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions
Summary: “Do you, like...only ignoremytexts?” Peter asks the next time Bucky passes by. “Or do you ignore everyone?”“I genuinely didn’t know I had a phone,” Bucky says. “I’m still not convinced that I do.”“I’m not...I’m not trying to bother you, Bucky,” Peter says dejectedly. “Bucky? Sergeant Barnes? Mr. Soldier? I don’t know what you like to be called.”“I don’t like to be called,” Bucky says, sparing him a smile. “That’s why I don’t have a phone.”He’s all the way to the other side of the track before he hears Peter hollering, “Wait, was that a joke?”
Series: luckyverse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/960108
Comments: 14
Kudos: 108





	brothers in arms

**Author's Note:**

> vaguely endgame-compliant, except i didn't include clint's family because i literally FORGOT about them until it was too late to do anything about it, whoops.
> 
> please note this is not a fic about romantic or sexual relationships, but there is some frank sexual innuendo and some descriptions of a character watching porn.
> 
> peter is eighteen in this fic.
> 
> this is technically a prequel to the luckyverse, but it functions entirely as a complete, standalone story. this fic does not contain any RPF.

Things change.

It’s the goddamn understatement of Bucky Barnes’ excruciatingly long life.

He was a kid in Brooklyn, then he was a soldier in a war, then he was a corpse in a river, then he was a weapon in Siberia, then he was a sinner in a stranger’s body, then he was a survivor in Wakanda, then he was a pile of dust in a Soul Stone, and now he’s...something else. He’s been so fucking _much_ already, and he has no idea what’s next.

He hasn’t been able to choose any of his previous incarnations, so he’s assuming the decision is out of his hands anyway.

Things are in flux right now. People are talking about putting the Avengers back together. Putting S.H.I.E.L.D. back together. Overturning the Accords. Strengthening the Accords. He doesn’t know how it’s going to play out or what’s going to happen to him, so for now, he stays at the Avengers compound in upstate New York with Clint and Sam and Bruce and Rhodey and whoever else drops by from time to time. He has his own room with a lock on the door, and he has his own bed and a closet and a TV and a private bathroom. There’s a large outdoor track where he goes for long, long runs by himself. There’s a gym where he lifts weights.

Some of the other occupants of the compound spar with each other. They eat meals together. They watch sporting events on the large communal television. At first, they ask Bucky to join them, but he always declines, and eventually, they stop asking.

And that’s been Bucky’s life, day after day. He wakes up, and he eats some food, and he works on his body, and he tries to work on his mind. And he goes to the team meetings they ask him to go to, and the rest of the time, he just keeps trying to figure out who he’s supposed to be and if anything is ever going to be okay again.

Scott and Hope stay for three weeks in the spring. She says things to Scott that sound like insults, but she smiles when she says them, and he smiles back at her. Once, when they don’t realize Bucky is looking, Scott puts his hands on Hope’s face and whispers words that makes her expression change to something intense, something intimate that is only intended for Scott, and she wraps her arms around him as he kisses her very tenderly. Something inside Bucky aches to see it. There is a sweetness and ease to them that feels irresistible and utterly unattainable.

Shuri visits a few times, and she calibrates his arm, and she listens as he haltingly tries to describe for her what he would want in a new one. Something strong and reliable but not dangerous. Something that would protect him, but something he can completely control. Something so raw and oversensitive that attempting to hurt others would hurt himself more. She nods and takes notes and asks if he wants to come back to Wakanda to receive a new arm, but he’s not ready to ask for a favor of that magnitude, not from her, not yet.

She tells him about the relief centers she is setting up across the world, and he wonders what she would say if he asked to help. If he asked to leave this place and travel with her. He doesn’t want to put her in the awkward position of having to say no, so he doesn’t ask. But when she goes, he misses her. She feels like home and safety and possibility in a way that no one else here does.

Peter Parker, the boy who is the spider, starts coming up for weekends during the summer. His frame is deceptively small and untoned, but he is extraordinarily strong. He spends a lot of time in the lab and not very much time in the gym or on the track, so Bucky mostly does not see or interact with him. But everyone knows when Peter is around. His endless chatter snakes through the corridors and makes his presence known.

One weekend, it rains a lot. Bucky tries running outside, but the air is swampy and unpleasant, so he reluctantly decides to run inside instead. There are machines for running in place, but he doesn’t like those and instead elects to do laps around the gym. He runs clockwise for fifteen minutes, then switches to counterclockwise for another fifteen, and then he repeats it over and over again for as long as he can stand it.

He realizes that Peter is there right away, of course. Bucky is very finely attuned to his surroundings, and as much as everyone insists that this compound is safe, Bucky cannot let down his guard. He just _can’t_. So when Peter slips into the gym and sits on the floor with his back to the weight bench and his arms looped around his knees, Bucky immediately notices him, monitors him, determines that there is no immediate threat, and does not interrupt his running routine.

“Do you have to run?” Peter finally asks after eight minutes, which is the longest time Bucky has ever observed him being quiet in one interrupted stretch. He would have preferred longer.

“I don’t understand the question,” Bucky says. “I run every day.”

“I mean, do you really have to work out at all?” Peter asks. “Aren’t you just like...a supersoldier? Is that something you have to maintain? If you stopped working out, would all your muscles shrink?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says uncertainly. He’s never considered the possibility. He needs this too much, needs to feel in control of his body too much. “I run every day.”

“Cool,” Peter says softly. “Sorry to bother you, bro. It’s just, before I came here, I didn’t know anyone else who was, like….”

“Dangerous?”

“Powerful,” Peter says.

“Everyone here is powerful,” Bucky says, slowing to a jog. “Everyone here has abilities, and most of them have better control than I do.”

“I don’t know about that,” Peter says. “Everyone seems to think your control is pretty good.”

Peter hasn’t observed Bucky fighting or training in years, which means he’s heard this from someone else, which means people talk about Bucky when he’s not there. He assumed that because he didn’t see the others much, he didn’t really register on their radar. He’s not sure how to feel about learning that the opposite is true.

“Besides, that’s not what I mean,” Peter says, and he goes silent for so long that Bucky has to keep turning his head to make sure he’s still there, and at that point, it seems more efficient to stop running and to walk over and stand near him.

“What did you mean?”

“Everyone here is cool,” Peter says, looking at his hands. “I mean it, they’re the best. I’m super happy to be here.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees. He guesses they’re cool, and he’d rather be here than in an underground prison somewhere.

“But most of them aren’t…. I mean, they have cool suits, or they have really high-tech weapons, or they trained for a long time to develop a special skill, but a lot of them are still...pretty normal.”

“Not me,” Bucky says.

“Not me either,” Peter says

“So you have questions because I am a freak,” Bucky asks, curiously. He doesn’t disagree, and it feels refreshing not to tiptoe around the inevitable for once.

“No,” Peter says thoughtfully. “I don’t know, maybe? Most of them can just...take it off and be normal people. But what I am…. It’s _inside_ me. It’s a part of me. And then it’s like, really amped up by the suit, so it’s like--”

“Like you’re partially technologically embellished,” Bucky says, nervously fingering the hem of his sweatshirt sleeve, “and partially just...intrinsically a monster.”

“I wouldn’t have said monster,” Peter says with a frown. “I don’t think you’re a monster.”

“You don’t know me,” Bucky says simply. It’s not Peter’s fault. He’s a child, and there are many things he hasn’t figured out yet. Bucky’s been alive for over a century and he still can’t wrap his head around the way the world works sometimes, so he wouldn’t expect any more from a teenager.

“I’m not scared of you,” Peter says evenly. “We all had a pretty bad time, and none of us are the same people we were before, and now I’m here to learn from you whether you like it or not.” His bravado breaks then. “I mean, like, with your eventual consent, obviously. Whenever you feel ready. But I’m going to be here every weekend until I start college, so get used to it.”

Bucky shrugs and starts running again. He’s gotten used to plenty worse.

*

He goes into the dining area for breakfast one morning, assuming he will have his usual meal of yogurt and protein bars and scalding black coffee. But when he gets there, he sees a lavish spread of breakfast dishes on the main table, and everyone is lounging around in pajamas nibbling on bacon or muffins.

It seems there is a party that he wasn’t invited to, and he wonders how he can slip in and grab enough nutrition to fuel his workout without making anyone feel awkward.

“Hey!” Bruce calls out when he sees Bucky hesitating in the doorway. “Grab a plate, man!”

“What’s this?” Bucky asks, taking another step into the room. “Sorry if I’m interrupting something.”

“No, man, it’s a new tradition,” Rhodey says, pulling a flask out of his pocket and pouring a generous splash of something into his orange juice. “Sunday brunch. Team brunch bros. Help yourself.”

“Okay,” Bucky says uncertainly.

He selects a plate and carefully portions out some food for himself, and then he sits at the end of the table and eats while the other men continue their conversation. They try to include Bucky, but he hasn’t seen the movie they’re talking about, and they stop bugging him when it becomes clear he has nothing to add. So Bucky eats quietly, and they talk around him. And he’s there with them, eating their good food and eavesdropping on their lighthearted conversation, but they let him stay separate, where he’s comfortable.

It’s the best meal he’s had in a long time.

*

“You never answer my texts.”

The weather is glorious, so Bucky’s running on the outdoor track, relishing the way the air feels on his skin. He didn’t know Peter was going to be here, assumed he’d be completely alone like always, so he didn’t cover up the arm. It’s on full display in his sleeveless athletic shirt, and there’s no obvious way for him to cover it now.

“That’s correct,” Bucky agrees. He doesn’t know what Peter means, exactly, but he has certainly never answered a text, so he can confirm the accuracy of that statement.

“Do I have the right number for you?” Peter yells as Bucky speeds past.

“Dunno,” Bucky shouts back with a shrug. Bucky has lots of numbers. He has a height and a weight and an age and a military serial number. All of those are public record. If Peter has them wrong, that’s not Bucky’s fault.

“Oh, you’re old,” Peter says, like he has broken some mysterious riddle. “You probably don’t text. Should I call you?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“You absolutely have a phone, because I keep texting it!”

Bucky breathes in raggedly through his nose. His runs are supposed to be quiet. He decides to stop answering Peter, and maybe he will leave.

Peter does not leave. And when Bucky completes his workout and walks back inside, Peter follows him all the way to his bedroom door.

“Can I come in?” Peter asks.

“No,” Bucky says without hesitation. This is his private space. It’s _his_ , they all said so, and it’s the only thing he’s got that’s his.

“See you tomorrow,” Peter calls as Bucky steps inside and firmly shuts and locks the door.

*

Bucky comes down to the dining area for brunch in his workout shorts and a baggy sweatshirt. Everyone else is in pajamas again, but Bucky doesn’t feel ready for that.

“Saved you a seat,” Peter says, happily munching on some bacon.

There is already a full plate in front of the chair that Peter is gesturing at, and Bucky looks at it skeptically.

“I loaded you up with all the basics for a balanced supersoldier diet,” Bruce says, handing him a steaming mug of coffee. “I’ve noticed you don’t eat a lot of fruits or any meat or really much of anything besides supplements and meal replacements. I’ve been studying the supersoldier metabolism, and I think this might be a good combination of macronutrients for you. We could do a formal study if you wanted better recommendations.”

“Oh, is that your superpower now?” Rhodey asks drily. “Are you a super-dietician?”

“I dabble,” Bruce says with a shrug.

Bucky sits down and looks at his plate. There are fluffy scrambled eggs with green herbs and a red sauce on them, lots of fruit, a pastry with a brown grainy filling and some icing drizzled on top, and several links of sausage. He does not like sausage.

“We should have a movie night,” Clint says. He’s sitting on the counter drinking coffee directly out of his own pot. He’s had three blueberry muffins and is unwrapping a fourth. “Bucky hasn’t seen anything. We need to get him up to speed.”

“Start with Indiana Jones,” Bruce says.

“Or,” Peter says thoughtfully, stirring a sixth packet of sugar into his coffee, “we could watch something, like, good.”

Everyone starts arguing with everyone else, and Bucky stays quiet and methodically eats his food, starting at one side of his plate and working his way to the other. He eats everything except for the sausage while everyone keeps discussing movies that Bucky hasn’t heard of.

“Try the sausage,” Bruce says hopefully. “It’s turkey sausage with sage and apple. I made it.”

Bucky _does not like sausage_ , and Bucky likes making his own choices.

But Bruce made him a plate, and now they are trying to include him in their movie discussion, so he decides he will take a bite. It’s okay if it’s something that he decides.

He cuts off a small piece of the sausage and pops it into his mouth.

“It’s delicious,” Bucky says with surprise. It’s moist and herbaceous and not very greasy. He takes another bite. Delicious.

“Cool,” Bruce says, ducking his head slightly with a smile. “Thanks. Glad you like it.”

“I want to watch the movie Bruce wants to watch,” Bucky says.

Everyone groans except for Bruce, who holds his arms up victoriously, and Clint, who just rolls his eyes and tosses half a muffin at him, which bounces perfectly, precisely off of Bruce’s nose.

*

The next weekend, without fail, Peter shows up halfway through Bucky’s run.

“Rhodey says you _do_ have a phone,” Peter shouts at him without even saying hello. “He says he gave it to you when you got here.”

Bucky was given a lot of stuff when he got here. He uses the clothing and some of the simpler bathroom toiletries, but everything else is probably still stashed in the bottom drawer of his dresser, forgotten since that first day.

Bucky doesn’t answer Peter and keeps running. He’s trying to remember the plot of the movie they watched last week. It was fine. They’re watching the sequel tonight. He didn’t understand why some parts made everyone else laugh, and he doesn’t know how he feels about watching people fight fictionalized Nazis, but it’s nice to have something to do at night, and he likes eating popcorn with everyone else.

“Do you, like...only ignore _my_ texts?” Peter asks the next time Bucky passes by. “Or do you ignore everyone?”

“I genuinely didn’t know I had a phone,” Bucky says. “I’m still not convinced that I do.”

“I’m not...I’m not trying to bother you, Bucky,” Peter says dejectedly. “Bucky? Sergeant Barnes? Mr. Soldier? I don’t know what you like to be called.”

“I don’t like to be called,” Bucky says, sparing him a smile. “That’s why I don’t have a phone.”

He’s all the way to the other side of the track before he hears Peter hollering, “Wait, was that a joke?”

“Bucky’s fine,” he says when he rounds the bend and comes to a stop a few yards away from Peter. “Just Bucky.”

“Do you not like texting because, you know?” Peter says awkwardly, holding his arm stiffly out in front of him and then bending it jerkily while making robot noises.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mutters. “If I look for my phone, will you please stop asking me about it?”

“Probably not,” Peter says, and Bucky doesn’t quite laugh, but he feels the corners of his lips twitch, and that’s its own kind of success.

*

After he finishes his run, Bucky heads back to his room, and Peter follows him.

“Wait here,” Bucky says, opening the door. He slips through and closes it securely behind himself. His room is neat and orderly, which is the way he likes it. Mess hides too much. If everything is exactly, _exactly_ how he left it, then he knows that no one else was here, and his things are safe, and he is safe.

He opens the bottom drawer to his sleek, modern dresser. Inside is a reissused Social Security card, information about how to collect backpay from the military, a laminated sheet of paper with instructions for connecting to the secured Wi-Fi network, several take-out menus from local restaurants willing to deliver to the gate, a copy of his own HYDRA file that he hasn’t had the stomach to open yet, and a thin box with a picture of a very minimalistic, stylized cell phone on the front.

He leaves everything else in the drawer, and he goes back into the hallway and hands the box to Peter.

“I guess this is what you’re looking for?”

“Shit,” Peter says, eyes widening. “This is a Stark X-11 Virtuaphone. This is nicer than mine.”

“You can have it,” Bucky offers. “I never opened it.”

“This costs more than my first semester tuition,” Peter says, his hands shaking slightly. “I mean, I do have a full scholarship, so my tuition is technically free, so I guess all phones cost more than my tuition, but this is...this is a nice phone.”

“It’s wasted on me,” Bucky says.

“Don’t you want to be able to get in contact with people?” Peter asks, still not looking away from the box in his hands.

“No,” Bucky says, and he means it as he says it, but then he immediately thinks of Shuri. He would really, really love to be able to get in contact with Shuri. “Maybe.”

“I could set it up for you,” Peter says. “Just show you how to use it. I could probably trick it out a bit. Do you want me to jailbreak it?”

“Don’t break it,” Bucky says, confused. “You said it was expensive. It’s probably delicate. I might break it if I touch it.”

“I’ll get it charged,” Peter says. “And I’ll find a high-tech case for it. They make them practically indestructible now. I’ll find a good one for you.”

“Okay,” Bucky agrees, because now he’s curious. Other people seem glued to their phones, and he just doesn’t get it, but maybe Peter will show him. “I’m going to take a shower. Just give it back to me whenever.”

“Sure thing,” Peter says, already reverently opening the box right there in the hallway.

Bucky leaves him there to his tech toys and retreats to his room. He normally showers quickly, but today, he lingers. The water feels nice on his skin, nice on his muscles, and he has nothing else to do today anyway. He might as well let himself indulge.

*

The following weekend, it’s Peter’s turn in the movie-selection rotation. _Mean Girls_. Bucky does not understand it, and no one else seems to be laughing as hard as Peter, but at least there is no war and no Nazis, and there’s lots of popcorn.

“He’s gay,” Peter says about halfway through, pointing at one of the males on screen.

“No, I think the other one’s gay,” Bruce says, squinting at the screen. “The friend, right?”

“This boy is dating the girl,” Bucky adds, trying to be helpful.

“No, not the character,” Peter says. “The actor. Shit, what’s his name?” He pulls out his phone and starts thumbing at it. “It doesn’t matter, but he’s definitely gay. He came out a few years ago.”

“Came out of what?” Bucky asks cautiously.

“The...closet?” Peter says, tilting his head at Bucky confusedly. Then he goes back to his phone. “I think he’s married to some guy. I think they have a baby.”

“You millennials want everyone to be gay,” Sam teases. “What, you planning to proposition him at Pride?”

“I’m not into dudes,” Peter mutters under his breath. “Huh. Okay, so he’s not married, but he’s definitely gay.”

“Then you have a shot,” Sam says with a shrug.

“I think he’s too old for you,” Bruce says concernedly.

“Oh my god, I’m into girls!” Peter says, exasperated. “Everyone fuck off and stop talking about me. My queerness is none of your business.”

He shoves his phone in his pocket and stalks out of the room.

“Guys, be cool,” Clint murmurs. “We need to be more cool with him.”

“I really thought he was into guys,” Sam said. “Honestly, I thought he liked dudes. I wasn’t trying to say anything.”

“Then you should have actually not said anything,” Bucky mutters.

He gets up and walks down the hallway until he reaches Peter’s room. He raps lightly on the doorframe with his right hand.

“Go away,” is Peter’s muffled response.

“It’s me,” Bucky says hesitantly. “Mr. Soldier. You don’t have to let me in if you don’t want to. I just wanted you to know that I don’t think it’s okay that they were asking all those questions you didn’t want to answer. People are allowed to not want to say anything.”

The door cracks open.

“Do you want to come in?” Peter asks glumly.

“Only if you want me to.”

Peter doesn’t answer, but he flings the door open the rest of the way and walks over and sits down on his bed. Bucky cautiously steps inside.

“If you’re coming in, close the door,” Peter says, and Bucky does. And then he takes in Peter’s room, the piles of clothes, the disassembled electronic devices, the posters on the wall, the rainbow flag draped over the back of the door. The bits of personal touches everywhere that declare this space as his.

“I’m sorry they upset you,” Bucky says. “I don’t think they meant to, but I’m sorry they did.”

“I shouldn’t get so worked up,” Peter says, kicking absently at a pile of clothing next to his bed. “I just get tired of explaining myself sometimes. People my age get me better. It’s harder with old people. No offense.”

“I’m not offended,” Bucky says. “I am objectively very old, and I am objectively difficult.”

“I like girls,” Peter says. “I don’t get why that’s so hard for people to remember. That’s like...the least confusing thing about me. Jesus, stop standing all weird in the doorway and sit down.”

“I’ll remember,” Bucky says, awkwardly perching on the corner of the bed. “Peter likes girls. Stored in the supersoldier memory vault for good.”

“And obviously there’s nothing wrong with guys who like guys, that’s not what I’m saying at all,” Peter says quickly.

It’s the word _obviously_ that snares Bucky’s attention. Because there’s never been anything obvious about that to him. Not a thing at all. Not when it was him, back in the forties, feeling like he was going to hell for having feelings for another fella, scared to ever act on them or even examine them in his heart.

But everything changes. Every-fucking-thing changes, and this has changed too, apparently.

“I don’t know what it was like back then,” Peter continues. “Probably bad. But it’s not a big deal these days at all. Guys marry other guys, and girls marry other girls, and they can have kids and everything. No one cares. I have lots of queer friends.”

“That’s really something,” Bucky says softly.

“So like, if that’s something that you have a problem with, you should probably try to get over it,” Peter says stiffly. “Things aren’t the same as they were back then, and you have to adapt with the times.”

“I wouldn’t hate somebody for loving anybody else,” Bucky says. “It’s nice that people can just be open.” He doesn’t know how any of them have the courage for it, to be honest, but good for them.

“Anyway,” Peter says, “I got your phone set up for you. You need to put in the password for your email, and I downloaded some basic apps like Twitter and Instagram and Spotify, so if you have accounts for those already, just put in your info.” He looks at Bucky’s blank face. “Okay, so you don’t have accounts for those. I’ll set them up later. Do you know how to text?”

“I used Kimoyo beads in Wakanda,” Bucky says. Peter picks up the phone and places it into Bucky’s hands, and Bucky cradles it gently, worried it will shatter. “This technology seems very different.”

“Four-year-old kids figure out how to use cell phones,” Peter says. “You should be fine, probably. Here, I’m your only contact so far. This is how you send me a message.”

Peter takes the phone back from Bucky, swipes his finger a few different directions, then keys in a message that says _hi peter its me bucky Barnes i’m so glad we’re friends!!_ He hits send, and then Peter’s pocket buzzes softly.

“And then I open it up,” Peter continues, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “And I send you a message back, and we can have conversations this way, as long as you remember to charge it.”

Bucky isn’t sure how he feels about giving Peter even more opportunities to talk to him, but he nods anyway and says, “Thank you for showing me.”

“Is there anyone else you want to add as a contact?” Peter asks.

A dozen faces flash through his mind. His ma. Becca. Steve. There are so many people he wishes this phone could reach.

“Shuri,” Bucky says softly. “Make it so I can talk to Shuri.”

*

Peter spends another hour adding contacts into Bucky’s phone, showing him how to edit and delete them, how to send texts and place calls, how to use emojis, how to take pictures with a filter that makes them look like dogs, and how to go online to Google an actor’s name if he sees someone in a movie who looks familiar.

The next morning, Bucky charges his phone the way Peter showed him, even though it’s still at 87%. When it gets up to 100%, he opens a text message and painstakingly, single-handedly pecks out a message to Shuri.

_This is Bucky. I have a phone now. I’m not very good at texting. Can I call you sometime?_

A minute passes, and then his phone lights up and vibrates to let him know he has an incoming call. His fingers are shaking so badly that he can barely swipe to accept it, but he finally does.

“White Wolf!” Shuri’s affectionate voice lilts at him through the speaker. “I see your technology is now only fifty years behind mine instead of the usual hundred!”

“Hi, Princess,” he says, closing his eyes. “I know it’s late there. Sorry if I’m interrupting something.”

“Nonsense,” she protests. “You finally have a phone. This is a newsworthy event. Shall I call the press for an interview?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he says with a chuckle. “Is the sun setting there? Can you see it from where you are?”

“I’m on the wrong side of the palace,” she says. “Give me a moment and I will walk to the Western Corridor and let you know. Would you like me to send you a picture?”

“I would love that,” he says. He listens to her gentle chatter as she walks, filling him in on her newest inventions, the progress she’s making with her charity, the latest stupid thing she has convinced T’Challa to wear.

A few minutes later, his phone beeps, and the screen changes to a sea of purples and oranges, the last slice of sun peeking out as it slips below the horizon, reflecting its rays off the force field like a prism. The sight of it makes the air in his throat feel thick and sticky, like he can’t quite breathe from the beauty of it.

“I missed that,” he says softly. “I really hope I get to see that again someday.”

“You will,” she murmurs. “The borders of Wakanda are now open to all who seek refuge, but even if they were not, there will always be a place for you here.”

*

Shuri teaches Bucky how to download digital books onto his phone, and she gives him a list of recommendations. He starts with Teju Cole’s _Every Day is for the Thief_.

“It’s a book about a boy who returns home after many years to find that things are not as he has remembered them,” she’d explained to him. “The parallel is too obvious to be elegant, White Wolf, but maybe you will appreciate it anyway.”

He brings his phone to the lab, and he reads his books while Bruce runs tests. Bucky eats certain foods, then he performs certain physical tasks, and then Bruce draws some blood and monitors his heart and respiration rates. Bucky isn’t any good at small talk, and Bruce is the only person in the compound who’s almost as socially awkward as Bucky is, but the silence between them feels companionable by the third day.

Plus, the food is all really good.

There is a growing list of movies taped to the refrigerator, and it will take them months to see them all. Everyone likes Sam’s picks, no one likes Peter’s picks, and Bucky still doesn’t really like movies so much. But he likes the way Clint writes snide but teasing commentary next to all of Peter’s suggestions. And he likes the way Sam will ask him afterwards if there was anything he didn’t understand that he needs explained. And he likes the way Bruce will sometimes do character impressions that everyone except for Bruce knows are terrible, but no one wants to hurt his feelings. And he likes the popcorn, and he likes the routine, and he likes that they are all dependably doing this together.

*

Clint isn’t at bros brunch the next week.

“There’s talk,” Rhodey announces, “of reforming the Avengers.”

“The same talk, or new talk?” Bucky asks, accepting a spinach and feta omelet from Bruce.

“Little of both,” Rhodey says. “New York Avengers is probably a done deal. West Coast Avengers is still up in the air. Clint’s scouting locations in California just in case.”

“What about S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Bruce asks concernedly. “I got a request from someone asking to check out my lab. Is that legit? Is S.H.I.E.L.D. back?”

“Probably. But whether or not we’re required to grant them access to our resources is still being negotiated.”

“I’m still going to college, right?” Peter asks anxiously.

“No one will be doing anything they don’t want to do,” Rhodey says, but Bucky isn’t so sure he believes that.

It’s too hot outside, but Bucky runs anyway. It’s unpleasant, but the way his mind starts disintegrating into chaos when he deviates from his routine is much, much worse. Peter joins him, of course, but he’s too busy messing around with Bucky’s phone to ask many questions, which is for the best. Bucky’s nerves are frayed, from the heat and from the idea that change is on the horizon, and he would be even worse company than usual today.

“I made that sunset picture your background like you asked me,” Peter says when Bucky finishes up. “And I made you an Instagram account, like in case you think pictures are something you’re going to be into. And if not, just look at my stuff, I need the likes.”

“Don’t know yet,” Bucky says. He doesn’t want to take pictures of anything, but it would be nice to see what Shuri is up to.

And maybe Peter, too. He’s going to college in about six weeks, and Bucky doesn’t know if he’ll see him much after that. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. He might miss Peter.

“Hey,” Bucky decides to tell him. “I might miss you when you go to college. I don’t know yet, because it hasn’t happened. But I might.”

“Really?” Peter asks in a high-pitched voice. He clears his throat. “Uh, I mean, cool. Yeah man, me too.”

*

Thor’s in town for the weekend, and the movie that night is _Love, Simon_ , another one of Peter’s picks. Peter is tense for the first fifteen minutes, posture stiff, arms crossed against his chest like he’s expecting someone to start shit with him. But everyone watches the movie quietly, and Peter relaxes incrementally.

The movie makes Bucky feel an emotion that he can’t articulate. The boy is scared to tell people who he really is, but when they find out, they still support him. His friends care about him no matter what. He was scared, but he didn’t need to be.

“That was weirdly uplifting for a queer film,” Clint says when they turn the lights back on. “Low body count, too.”

“It’s important to normalize queer films with happy endings,” Peter says stiffly, already bracing for a fight.

“I’m not arguing that,” Clint says with his hands up in surrender. “Just saying we didn’t have this kind of shit when I was growing up. Would’ve been nice if we did.”

Bucky definitely, _definitely_ didn’t have that kind of shit growing up.

“Are you making fun of me?” Peter asks.

“What? No.” Clint narrows his eyes at Peter. “Wait, you know I’m pan, right?”

“You’re _what_?”

“I’m pansexual,” Clint says, stretching his arms above his head. Bucky doesn’t know what that word means. “I thought everyone knew.”

“We do,” Rhodey says flatly. “You never shut up about it. Not ever.”

“What’s pansexual?” Bucky asks.

“It’s the same thing as bisexual,” Peter says suspiciously.

“It actually isn’t,” Clint says, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t explain my own queerness to me, Peter.” He turns to Bucky and continues. “It means I have the potential to be sexually attracted to...pretty much anyone. Men, women, people who are genderfluid or nonbinary. Humanoid aliens.”

“I’m a humanoid alien,” Thor says, sounding pleased.

“Yeah you are, buddy,” Clint says fondly, patting his shoulder.

“Wait,” Peter says, eyes wide. “Is this theoretical, or…?”

“No,” Rhodey says tersely. “He’s a certified alienfucker. He made himself a certificate. I can’t believe we’re having this discussion _again_.”

Bucky has never had this discussion for the first time, but he doesn’t know that he has anything to contribute, so he stays quiet. He just watches the way Clint’s hand lingers on Thor’s shoulder, the gentle looks on both their faces as Clint strokes his finger over Thor’s clavicle.

“Sorry, Clint,” Peter says eventually. “I wasn’t trying to start shit with you. I just have a friend who’s bi, and she gets very defensive about people telling her it’s a transphobic label and she should really identify as pan if she wants to be an ally, and I just--”

“No worries, kid,” Clint says easily. “It’s cool that we all get to choose our own labels, but it can also be confusing. Personally, I just wanted a label that made it very explicitly clear that I’m down to fuck aliens.”

“When do you even have time to get laid?” Sam asks. “You’re always here.”

“I manage,” Clint says. Thor’s eyes close as Clint lightly strokes his beard. 

*

After the movie, Thor produces an ornate flask of Asgardian mead to the delighted whoops of Sam and Clint. Peter looks cautiously hopeful, but Thor shakes his head sagely.

“You’re not ready for this, Spider,” he intones. “Even the Hawk and the Falcon will need their liquor greatly watered down.”

“Don’t water my shit down,” Sam says angrily. “I can hang, man.”

“You cannot,” Thor disagrees jovially. “And you, James? Will you partake?”

It takes Bucky a moment to realize that Thor is talking to him, that he is James.

“Not tonight,” Bucky says. “Can’t really get drunk with my metabolism anyway.”

“I don’t know, man,” Clint says. “This shit is pretty vicious. I bet it would fuck you up.”

“Even more reason not to,” Bucky says with a closed-mouth smile. He’s feeling more comfortable with the gang every day, but he knows he’s not ready for that. “But you guys have fun.”

He walks with Peter back towards their respective rooms. He’s glad to be done with socializing for the night, but he can tell that Peter is reluctant and out of sorts.

“If you wait an hour and then go back, they’ll probably be too inebriated to care,” Bucky says.

“No, it’s cool,” Peter says quietly. “I gotta drive home tomorrow anyway, and May will kill me if I show up hungover.” He shuffles his feet for a moment, lingering outside Bucky’s door. “Do you...do you think Clint was really mad at me?”

“No,” Bucky says. Clint is mostly easygoing. There’s a sharpness to his wit, but never a cruelness. He’s teasing and friendly, and he’s been very forgiving with Bucky. He’s sure Clint is not mad at Peter.

“I wasn’t trying to offend him. I just…. I don’t know, dude. Hormones or whatever. I just get kind of tense sometimes.”

“I don’t think anyone is mad,” Bucky says. “And even if they were, none of them will remember tomorrow.”

“That’s true,” Peter says. “Shit, I’ve never had adult queer friends before. I don’t want to fuck that up.”

“I don’t think you fucked up anything,” Bucky says. “Clint won’t be mad, and I don’t think he’ll let anyone else be mad on his account either.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Thanks, man. Hey, what did you think of the movie?”

“I liked that they were all friends,” Bucky says. “I liked that they were all very different from each other, but they were still friends.”

“I liked that, too,” Peter says, and he finally smiles.

*

Bucky enjoys the quiet camaraderie of bro brunch, but he also likes his normal solitary breakfast the rest of the week. He likes sipping a cup of black coffee in peace without having to worry about whether he is being rude or awkward or too quiet. He likes the other men, but being around them still feels like work. Being alone is work, too, but at least no one can measure his success there except for himself.

He’s expecting the kitchen to be empty that Wednesday morning, so he’s shocked to find Clint already there, nursing his pot of coffee from his perch on the counter. Clint is not a morning person. Bucky only even knows what a “morning person” _is_ because people keep telling him that Clint is not one.

“Hi,” Bucky says cautiously. He walks around Clint to the Keurig and brews some coffee directly into the Brooklyn Dodgers mug that used to be Steve’s but is now very obviously Bucky’s. Clint grunts but doesn’t really answer. When Bucky’s coffee finishes trickling out of the machine, he cradles the too-hot mug in his hand, waits for it to cool, and then they each drink their coffee in companionable silence.

“You’re approved for weapons, aren’t you?” Clint asks as Bucky is taking his final sips.

“Guess so.” Bucky _is_ a weapon. He’s not sure how much anyone does or doesn’t approve of that, but they don’t keep him locked up, so he guesses they don’t mind.

“It’s just that I never see you train with them,” Clint says. “You never go out to the range. You’re always running or lifting weights.”

“I run every day,” Bucky confirms. He rinses out his mug and places it upside down to dry for tomorrow’s use.

“I’m trying to ask if you want to go shoot at some shit with me.”

“Oh.” If that’s what Clint was trying to do, Bucky thinks his execution could use some work.

But he looks at Clint’s face and notices a weariness to him. His jaw looks tight and tense, and he looks tired. Bucky doesn’t know the exact connection between being tired and wanting to shoot things, but he understands restless nights, and he understands wanting to lash out. He doesn’t let himself do that anymore, because control is important. When Bucky loses control, people get hurt. But no one has invited him to shoot since he’s been here, and he’s heard that Hawkeye is a good shot. He thinks he’d like to see that for himself.

“I’ll go with you,” Bucky says.

Clint flashes a wan smile at him, and Bucky thinks this was a good decision.

They walk to the range together. Clint holds his thumb up to a black pad on the door and indicates that Bucky should do the same. The door beeps at them a few times, then a green pin-light appears and the door clicks open.

“I like arrows,” Clint says, heading over to the storage lockers. “I guess you like rifles.”

“I don’t know if I like rifles,” Bucky says. “That’s what I used to shoot, but I don’t know if I liked them.”

“Knives?” Clint offers. “Do you want to throw knives?”

He imagines the heft of a blade. He remembers calculating trajectories effortlessly in his head, perfectly predicting the way the metal would slice through air or water or flesh. Most people can’t do too much damage with one solitary blade. The Winter Soldier could do a lot of damage very quickly with one solitary blade. But there was always a closeness to the carnage. An immediacy. He would be able to control it. He thinks he should see if he still can.

“Yes,” Bucky says after thinking for a moment. “Yes, I would like to throw knives.”

“Lockers are back there,” Clint says, thumbing vaguely over his shoulder. “Get whatever you want.”

Clint hits a few buttons, and targets drop down from the ceiling in a random configuration. They look like circles inside circles inside circles. They don’t look like people, and Bucky is glad for that.

Clint straps on his quiver and hefts his massive bow while Bucky unwraps a roll of lightweight throwing knives and slips a fingerless glove over his left hand. At first, Bucky just watches the way Clint shoots. He’s so quick to aim and release that it seems almost casual, like he’s barely even trying. And yet, every arrow flies true and emphatic. It’s a level of skill so high that it’s innate, and it’s mesmerizing to watch as Clint looses arrow after arrow.

It takes about twenty minutes for Bucky to feel ready, but eventually he joins in. The knives feel familiar in his hands, and he tosses them carefully. Left handed, right handed, two at once, three at once. He imagines where he wants them to hit, and then his body makes that happen. He thinks he’s probably slower than he used to be, but his aim is still accurate, and no one is getting hurt.

“I get nightmares sometimes,” Clint says with his back to Bucky as he walks to the target to collect his arrows. He doesn’t say anything else, and Bucky doesn’t know if he’s supposed to talk or supposed to listen, so he errs on the side of silence. He watches Clint retrieve his arrows, which were punched into the target in a perfect chevron. Clint really is an amazing shot.

“You’re a great shot,” Bucky says when Clint walks back over.

“Yup,” Clint says. There’s still a tiredness to him, like he’s not truly all the way present. Bucky can’t even imagine how good he would be if he was actually _here_ , trying.

“I get nightmares, too,” Bucky says after a bit, not looking at Clint. He’s trying to balance a knife, point-side down, on his metal index finger. He finds the balance point for fleeting microseconds before it shifts, and he keeps making small adjustments to prevent the blade from toppling. His finger gently undulates through the air as he follows the gravity of the knife, and it’s hypnotizing. It’s easier to look at that than to look at Clint.

“Guess that’s to be expected,” Clint says, and his voice is wry but somehow tender. “Not that there’s anything normal about what I went through, let alone the shit you did. But at least the psychological horror-show that followed went according to the expectations my shrink gave me.”

Bucky knows a little about what Clint went through. He knows his mind was hijacked and his body used for terror, and he recently lost someone he loved very much, and Bucky understands both of those things on a level that is devastatingly intimate. He _knows_ this about Clint, but he forgets it, because Clint just seems...normal, most of the time. He wants to know the secret, wants to know how Clint figured out how to be functional enough to pass for a person, which Bucky isn’t sure he personally manages most days.

“You see a shrink?” Bucky asks instead. He doesn’t know if it’s polite to ask, but it’s an unfamiliar concept for him, and he’d like to collect some data.

“Sure,” Clint says, screwing up his face. “S.H.I.E.L.D.-mandated, when there was a S.H.I.E.L.D. And then Natasha-mandated, when….” He looks off into nothing for a while, and a complicated string of emotions play across his face. “You ever think,” he says quietly, his lips turned up into an expression that is in no way a smile, “about how much shit you’ve lost that you can never get back, and how people who’ve lost nothing think you’re just supposed to staple yourself back together and keep existing?”

“I’d say that about eighty percent of my thoughts are right along that line of thinking,” Bucky says carefully. Loss is so personal and intimate and specific. They’ve both been devastated, and it wouldn’t do to generalize too much. “Does talking about it help?”

“Sometimes,” Clint says. “Sometimes better, sometimes worse. All I know for sure is that shooting feels real good after a nightmare.”

“How often are you out here?”

“If I’m breathing, I’m shooting,” Clint says grimly, firing an arrow over his shoulder without even looking to hit a perfect bullseye.

They keep shooting until Bucky’s arms gets tired, and it’s glorious. He runs every day, but he doesn’t use his arms for much strenuous work, hasn’t since he was in Wakanda tending to animals and seeing to the other manual labor of the farm. It’s thrilling to feel worn down again.

“This was good,” he tells Clint as they walk back towards the compound with the sun sizzling down around them.

“Love shooting,” Clint agrees with a wide smile. “Hey, not that you asked, but if you’re looking for ways to vent energy and let off stress, orgasms are pretty good for that, too.”

Bucky...definitely had not asked.

“I’m not propositioning you,” Clint says. “Not really. Unless you want to. I don’t know what you’re into.”

“I don’t….” Bucky begins with a frown, but then he doesn’t know how to finish the thought. He just knows that Clint said _orgasms_ and Bucky’s instincts said _no_.

“Doesn’t have to be me,” Clint grins. “My needs are being met, man. I’m just saying that you’re a good-looking guy, and you’re living with a lot of other people with a bunch of shit in their heads they’re trying to forget. You have options, if you’re carrying something you can’t let go of and you want someone to bang it out with.”

“That doesn’t sound safe,” Bucky says. He imagines letting go of control, and he imagines his arm, unchaperoned, in someone else’s moment of vulnerability.

“There’s internet porn, too, if you haven’t discovered that yet,” Clint says. “It’s everywhere now.” He takes a breath and shakes his head, and when he continues talking, his voice is lower, more thoughtful. “Look, I’m not saying it’s healthy to wake up and roll over and grab your phone in one hand and your dick in the other and jerk off to a video of a woman pretending she loves it when a bunch of strangers come on her face. But sometimes, it just gives me ten minutes of fucking _quietness_ in my head. And that’s usually enough to justify it for me.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says awkwardly. He wouldn’t mind a little quietness, though he’s not sure this is the way to get him there. But he appreciates Clint’s attempts to help. “I might just stick to running and knives, but thank you.”

“No problem,” Clint says, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep. And if you ever want to talk…. Well, you should probably find a shrink for that, I guess. But I’m here for whatever.”

When Bucky gets back to his room, before he showers, he turns on his phone and pulls up a search box.

 _Internet porn_ , he types, one stumbling character at a time.

*

An hour later, Bucky has discovered the mute button on his phone (not soon enough, _Jesus_ ), and he also isn’t sure that porn appeals to him. He watches a video of a young pretty girl licking the dicks of three older men who don’t touch her very nicely. He watches two women kiss each other for ten minutes, and then the younger one sucks the older one’s toes. He doesn’t feel anything from them except for anger at the cruelness of the men, and he doesn’t think that’s what he’s supposed to be feeling.

He watches two men kiss while one man touches the other man’s cock until he comes. One man is large and muscular, and the other is very small and almost frail, and Bucky feels _something_ that he can’t quite identify. So he clicks through to other videos of men together, men mouthing at each other’s dicks, touching each other’s bodies. Men putting their fingers and their cocks and their tongues inside each other.

He palms his own dick, but it doesn’t seem interested. He isn’t turned on by any of it, and none of it makes him feel the feeling from the first video of the two men together. Something about a bigger man and a smaller man being intimate _means_ something to him, but whatever that memory is, nothing will shake it loose.

He takes a long shower, letting the warm water pound on his aching shoulders. There is still something coiled tight inside of him, like always, but at least his arms can relax and loosen.

After his shower, he changes into soft sweatpants and pulls his hair away from his face in a messy ponytail. He closes the browser window on his phone and spends the rest of the day reading _Americanah_.

When he wakes up the next morning, he has nine unread texts from Peter.

_Hey!_

_Hey u up?_

_Guess not!_

_I just wanted to say thanks for the other day talking to me and everything. I’m glad you liked th emovie it’s really important to me and im glad you got it_

_I wasn’t sure how everyone would feel about it because no one ever likes the movies i pick but i tink everytone likes that one? Clint did anyway so thats good_

_And he’s right they didn’t use to have movies like that, me and May talked about it forever and she keeps telling me how much better things are than even just a few years ago_

_Which is crazy because things are still so intense and not equal but she keeps saying that were making so much progress and i guess she would know_

_Dont be mad but i just wanted to say that i have a lot of friends who are gay and bisexual (and pan!!) and i know i already told you that it’s cool now but i wanted to make sure you know that its really really cool now and no one cares and no one treats you different, like in the movie how things were a little awkward at first but then everyone was fine. Its not like that for everyone, some people still have really shitty home life situations or bad work environments but you know WE are all cool. Like it’s not even a thing to be ashamed of at all, its something to be proud of. So like i am NOT trying to assume anything but if you ever needed like resources or someone to talk to or more information or like if you wanted me to make a Grindr profile for you or whatever then I GOT YOU ok like i am HERE for you and i just wanted to offer that to you in case you didnt know that i consider you such a good friend and i will support you no matter what. That’s all._

_btw you should definitely learn how to use an incognito window for your porn, just saying_

Bucky reads through the string of messages three times, and then he deletes Peter’s contact from his phone and goes for a run.

*

Bucky adds Peter back into his contact list a few hours later, but Peter doesn’t send him any more messages. Bucky doesn’t hear from him at all, not the rest of the week, and not the next weekend either when he stays home in Queens and doesn’t end up joining them.

Peter does, however, mail Clint a shirt that says ALIENFUCKER, which Clint immediately puts on and refuses to take off for five straight days until Bruce yells at him to do his goddamn laundry already.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. is definitely reforming,” Rhodey tells them over croque madames at brunch. “Avengers, too. East Coast and West Coast divisions, so start thinking about where you want to be.”

“When is this happening?” Sam asks. “Can I finish my damn sandwich first, or do I need to start packing?”

“Soon,” Rhodey says. “Can’t be any more specific than that. But expect some unfamiliar faces around here from now on. S.H.I.E.L.D. is going to have people on site checking things out. Be nice. Answer their questions. Be helpful. This only works if we cooperate.”

“I’m definitely staying on the east coast,” Sam says. “I’m not moving somewhere without seasons.”

“Fuck that, get me out of here,” Clint says with his mouth full. “I hate winter.”

Bucky didn’t realize he would actually have a choice in the matter, and part of him doesn’t want to choose. Doesn’t want to lose half his new friends. If someone else chooses for him, maybe it won’t feel like he’s leaving anyone behind.

But at the same time, he remembers being cold. Remembers his blood getting slow and thick in his veins, his heartbeat becoming more and more sluggish as the temperature dropped in the cryotubes. And he imagines what it would be like to be somewhere that was always, always sunny.

“I hate winter, too,” he says eventually, and Clint grins.

Just a few days later, it starts. Bucky accompanies Clint to the range, and a dark-haired woman follows them at a respectable distance, poking at the screen of her computer tablet and muttering to herself.

“Should we wait for you?” Clint calls over his shoulder after they use their thumbprints to access the building.

“Oh, please!” she replies with a broad smile and a lilting accent. “I’m trying to stay out of your way but perhaps I’ve overestimated the appropriate following distance!”

“Come along,” Clint says, giving her a particularly winning smile that Bucky hasn’t seen before, and Bucky wonders if Clint is attracted to this woman. There are almost never women at the compound, and maybe Clint is pleased to have one around again. But when she slips past them, Clint rolls his eyes so only Bucky can see, so maybe it’s not that. Maybe Clint is just trying to play nice so she doesn’t bother them.

“Cheers, sorry!” she chirps as they follow her inside. “I’m just meant to observe. Please try to behave as though I’m not here.”

“Sure thing,” Clint says evenly, but his gaze meets Bucky’s, and there’s a look in his eyes and a barely-perceptible shake of his head, and somehow, Bucky understands that Clint doesn’t want him to let his guard down, that under no circumstances should they act normally and forget for even a moment that she is there.

Clint pushes the buttons to set up the targets, and he configures them to be close and even and easy.

“Wanna mix it up and try handguns?” Clint asks Bucky.

“I’m not sure what I want to do today,” Bucky says. “Thought I’d just watch for a bit at first.”

“Sounds good,” Clint says. He looks over at the woman. “I know I’m supposed to pretend you’re not here, but do you want ear protection?”

“Please,” she says with a grateful smile. “That’s very kind of you.”

“I’m Clint Barton, by the way,” he says, handing her a sleek pair of earmuffs.

“I know,” she says eagerly. “You’re Hawkeye, and he’s the Winter Soldier. I studied you both at the academy. I’m Jemma Simmons. I’m a biochemist with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“You might want to put those on,” Clint says, nodding at her earmuffs, and her smile wavers for a moment before she complies.

Bucky doesn’t know if Clint really wants to shoot guns at all, or if he just wants to do something noisy to compromise her hearing. Knowing him, maybe a bit of both.

Clint goes over to the gun lockers and selects a Glock. It’s easier in his hands than Bucky would have expected. He loads it efficiently and shoots very competently. Still, it doesn’t seem to be as natural for him as his bow, which Bucky thinks was probably the point. Jemma can watch him be good, but Clint isn’t going to let her watch him be amazing. He’s keeping some secrets just for himself.

After ten minutes of watching Clint shoot, Bucky goes back to the lockers. He saw a pouch of shuriken there last week, and he thinks this is as good a day as any to use a brand new weapon he’s never attempted before.

*

Peter’s back the following weekend, and he acts like nothing out of the ordinary has happened, so Bucky does as well. He goes for his run, and he listens to Peter ramble on about how he took his aunt out for her birthday and the restaurant they ate at and the play they went to and the family of deer he saw on the side of the road when he was driving up the previous night. And like always, the talking all starts to blur together into background noise once Bucky’s mind is convinced that this is a safe situation, and he puts his energy and his effort into keeping his body moving forward as efficiently as possible.

Normally, Bucky showers and then reads after his run. But he just finished _So Long a Letter_ , the last book on Shuri’s recommended list, and she hasn’t sent him any new titles yet. So he makes the very unusual, uncomfortable decision to leave his room and see what everyone else is up to.

Bucky shivers as his wet hair drips onto the neckband of his t-shirt. His steps are quiet, because even after all this time, he knows how to be silent, invisible. But each footfall echoes so loud in his own head, like he’s creating his own drumroll. This feels momentous.

With each step he takes towards the common room, his anxiety grows. He could turn back. _He could turn back_. But if he gets too much closer, he won’t be able to retreat. And he feels the fear, metallic and warm at the back of his throat, and he holds it in his mouth and lets himself really taste it. He identifies his fear, and then he swallows it back down. He’s being irrational. He’s been through so many things that were so much worse. All he’s doing is walking down a hallway to see if his friends want to spend time with him.

They _are_ his friends. He knows they are because they’ve told him. He is allowed to want to keep a piece of this for himself.

When Bucky enters the common room, Rhodey and Sam are sitting on the couch looking tired, Peter looks determined, and Clint isn’t looking at anyone in particular as he bounces a small, soft ball off his knee, the side of his foot, his chest, his head.

“What is that?” Bucky asks him, grateful that he has an easy opening and doesn’t have to think of small talk.

“It’s a hacky-sack,” Clint says with a frown, hitting the ball with his shoulder and then his elbow. “What, they didn’t have hacky-sacks in HYDRA?”

“No,” Bucky says uncertainly.

“It’s okay,” Peter says. “I’d never heard of them either. It’s really, really old. Like, from the nineties.”

“Oh my god,” Sam says. “Shut up, man, I’m warning you.”

Bucky still doesn’t understand what Clint is doing, but the atmosphere in the room feels normal, teasing but not tense, and it lets Bucky relax just a little bit.

“I need a break from this place,” Peter whines. “Will someone please go with me to Starbucks?”

“There’s coffee right here,” Clint says, catching the ball neatly on his foot before leaning over to nab his mug from the table and take a long gulp.

“Your coffee is extremely disgusting,” Peter says seriously. Clint raises an eyebrow, then bounces the hacky-sack off the side of Peter’s head. “Ouch, what the fuck?”

“This coffee is great,” Clint says, catching the ball in the crook of his elbow, then sending it sailing up to the ceiling again. “I’m not going to Starbucks to pay a shit-ton of money for a tiny cup of burnt coffee when I can get an endless supply of perfectly good coffee here for free.”

“You do know this coffee isn’t actually free, right?” Rhodey interjects. “Just because you don’t personally pay for it doesn’t mean someone else isn’t.”

“Functionally free,” Clint says, shrugging and taking another sip.

“You’re uninvited,” Peter says. “You can’t come.”

“I didn’t _want_ to go,” Clint reminds him. He catches the ball on his forehead, then sends it over towards Bucky with a flick of his neck.

Bucky instinctively moves to catch it, then realizes that this game is about suppressing that automatic urge to bring a moving object to a stop. The point is to keep the action going. He lets the hacky-sack hit the flat of his inner wrist, visualizing the angle that will send it ricocheting back to Clint. Clint grins at him, and Bucky smiles back.

“I’ll go alone,” Peter says, making no attempt to leave.

“Bring an adult,” Rhodey says wearily.

“I’m _eighteen_ ,” Peter says, squaring his shoulders. “I’m a _grown-up_.”

And he is, but...he isn’t. He’s so fucking strong and powerful, legally old enough to make his own decisions, but still so insecure and self-conscious that Bucky thinks it’s going to be a long time before any of them look at Peter and see an adult, not a kid.

“Bring someone along,” Rhodey says. And Bucky thinks he’s just saying it to give Peter a hard time, because none of them really have the authority to keep Peter here or tell him what to do. Peter doesn’t even live here, just comes and goes as he wants. He could leave with no consequence, and Bucky is sure that Peter knows that.

And yet, Peter rolls his eyes and lets his shoulders sag, turning to Bucky and asking, “So do you want to go to Starbucks with me?”

“I’ve never been to Starbucks,” Bucky says. They didn’t have them in Wakanda, and that was the only place he ever felt safe enough to explore.

“You’re gonna hate it,” Clint says with a wry half-smile.

“At the very least, you’re gonna hate the music on the car ride over,” Sam chimes in.

“I have great taste in music,” Peter says, ignoring everyone’s emphatic disagreement. He really doesn’t, but Bucky isn’t bothered enough to argue the point personally when everyone else is already piling on. “Let’s go. I’m driving.”

“I didn’t actually agree to this,” Bucky says, but he still follows Peter out of the room. “And I’m driving,” he says, just to be argumentative.

Bucky actually doesn’t remember ever driving a car. He can fly a helicopter or ride a motorcycle easily, instinctively. These are innate, automatic skills for him, precise weapons in a very well-organized toolbox. He thinks driving a car involves some finesse and intuition that he lacks, a curious hole in his repertoire that he pokes at idly but doesn’t venture too far into. He doesn’t know if HYDRA ever let the Winter Soldier learn that particular skill. Maybe they never wanted him to be quite that independent. 

“Do you really want to drive?” Peter asks, and Bucky shakes his head.

“You can drive, and you can choose the music,” Bucky says. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“Cool,” Peter says, and he smiles at Bucky, brilliant and guileless and happy. He really is a good kid.

The drive there isn’t quiet, not by any stretch of the imagination, because it’s Peter, and his chatter is endless and inane. But Bucky’s used to it, and there’s something comfortable in the way Bucky can just sit in the passenger seat and be passive, letting Peter direct both the conversation and the vehicle.

“We’re here,” Peter says after driving for about twenty minutes, pulling into a parking space. 

They’ve arrived at a nondescript strip mall. Bucky’s never been here before, but it looks like the stores he sees on TV, in ads, in the background of modern movies. There is a generic Americanness to the parking lot. They could be anywhere. But...they’re here.

“There’s a drive-thru, but I think we should go inside for the genuine, authentic experience,” Peter says. “It’s your first time here.” Bucky doesn’t care either way, doesn’t anticipate this being an especially momentous occasion in his life, but he’s happy to go along with whatever Peter wants to do.

Bucky follows Peter into the store. It’s sparse, with high ceilings and poured cement floors that catch every echo and whisper. The line to order is short, and Bucky stares at the menu board, but just as he begins to read, the words disappear, replaced by stylized images of flavored ice teas. He tries to read about them, but they fade out, the text returning. The images cycle too fast, and besides, Bucky doesn’t even know what a macchiato or a flat white is supposed to _be_ anyway. The words are not helpful.

Clint was right. Bucky does hate this a little. He knows Peter will help, but Bucky likes to choose for himself, and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to do that here.

But not everything is about him. Peter wanted to be here, and he wanted company, and he seems happy and relaxed beside Bucky in line. And Peter has been very patient with Bucky, offering him friendship for months with little recompense, and so Bucky can shut up and stand in this line and drink whatever appears before him.

“Hi,” Peter says when they reach the front of the line. “I want a venti caramel ribbon crunch frappuccino with extra whip, and he’ll have, like, an Americano or something serious like that.”

“Name for the frappuccino?” the cashier asks, squinting at her register.

“Peter,” Peter says. “Peter Parker. Peter. Sorry, I don’t know why I told you my last name. Just Peter.”

“And what size is the Americano?” she asks, looking at Bucky like she’d rather be doing absolutely anything else in the entire world.

“What’s an Americano?” Bucky asks Peter quietly, not wanting to inconvenience this poor girl any more but also not wanting to walk out of here with an abomination that Clint will tease him for.

“No one knows,” Peter says.

“It’s espresso shots and hot water,” the cashier says tiredly. “It’s like very strong coffee.”

“Oh. That’s good,” Bucky says. Clint would like that choice. Bucky thinks he’ll like it, too. “A medium, please. The name is Bucky.”

“Nine dollars and forty cents,” she says, and Bucky has a brief flash of anxiety when he realizes he genuinely does not have any money and does not know how to get any. But before he can vocalize this, Peter is whipping out his phone and touching the screen to a sensor on the register.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, following Peter over to the area where people are waiting for their drinks. “I’ll pay you back.” He’s not sure how, but he knows he has some back-pay from the army _somewhere_ , not to mention all the cash he’s stashed in various locations around the country over the last decade. None of it is especially accessible from his current location, but it’s out there. He’ll acquire some money somehow. He’ll pay Peter back.

“It’s not a big deal,” Peter says with a shrug. “I have the app. I’ll get stars.”

Bucky has absolutely no idea what that means, but he thinks that is a conversation for a different time.

When their drinks are called, Peter’s is a towering icy monstrosity, dripping with whipped cream and caramel sauce. Bucky’s is a more modest cup of steaming coffee, and he stirs one packet of sugar into it as Peter jams a straw into his cup and takes an eager slurp.

“Awesome,” Peter says happily. “Is yours good?”

Bucky carefully fits the lid back onto his cup and then picks it up with his right hand. There is a cardboard sleeve around the cup, but he still feels the gentle warmth seep through to his skin. He sips tentatively, and the coffee is hot and sharp, with just a slight undercurrent of sweetness from the sugar. It’s exactly how he likes his coffee to taste, and he closes his eyes and take a second indulgent sip.

It’s a small pleasure, but a nice and unexpected one.

“Awesome,” Bucky echoes, and Peter grins at him.

They head out of the store and back to the car. Bucky has his left hand in his jeans pocket and his right hand holding a cup of coffee, and he feels calm and content like he hasn’t in years. He didn’t expect this trip to amount to much, and in the grand scheme of his life, it hasn’t. This is a blip, a moment in time. It’s barely anything at all. But to feel happy and comfortable again after so long without it is quietly exhilarating. Like maybe there is still something good in store for him in this life. Like there is still something he can look forward to, even if it’s just more small pockets of peace.

He’s grateful to Peter for showing him this, and he’s glad to share this experience with a friend.

When they get back to the car, Peter quickly grabs the handful of napkins and receipts occupying both cupholders, chucking the mess into the backseat of the car without looking. Bucky slips his drink into the open slot, fastens his seatbelt, and waits. Peter put the key into the ignition but doesn’t turn it. The car beeps at him several times until he removes the key, palming it from one hand to the next. He seems uncomfortable, and it’s so at odds with how relaxed Bucky feels.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks softly.

“Yeah,” Peter says, looking at the key in his own hand like he’s waiting for it to reveal something. “Yeah, I’m cool. Would it be okay if we talked a bit before we drive back?”

“Sure,” Bucky says. Peter already talked the whole ride here, and Bucky’s expected him to talk the entire ride back. But this seems different than the idle, aimless prattle. This seems pointed and serious, and Bucky will do his best to honor that.

“Do you….” Peter starts, then shakes his head, clears his throat. “Do you ever feel bad in your body? Like just...like it’s _wrong_? Like it’s not what you’re supposed to be?”

“I guess so,” Bucky says cautiously. He doesn’t think this is actually supposed to be about him, and he wants Peter to have the space to say what’s on his mind.

Because _of course_ Bucky feels bad in his body. His arm is a weapon, and his body was hijacked by murderers. Sometimes, this body feels like he’s trapped in someone else’s nightmare. But that’s not what Peter is trying to get at, obviously. His life experiences are not the same as Bucky’s. This is not about Bucky.

“I, uh.” Peter flips the key over and over in his hand, a rhythmic tic as he searches for his words. “I had a different name before. And a different body. I don’t know if you know about stuff like this.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t feel comfortable with.” Bucky’s not sure what he’s getting at, but he’s certain that this is difficult for Peter, and he doesn’t know if he’s the right person for Peter to be opening up to. Bucky doesn’t know if he knows how to be soft and compassionate anymore, and he thinks that’s what Peter needs, and he doesn’t want to fuck up this fragile friendship.

“No, I want to tell you,” Peter says, and he swipes his hand through his hair with a frown on his face. His motions are jerky, uncareful. He’s frustrated, maybe fearful, and Bucky doesn’t know how to make him not be.

Bucky watches his profile, watches the effort he takes with each syllable, and the way he is clearly struggling to stay composed. There is a strength in Peter that Bucky rarely sees, but he knows it’s there, and he sees it right now, laid out side by side with all of Peter’s insecurity. They’re both in him, Bucky realizes, the surety and the doubt. Not in spite of one another, but constantly playing off the other. _Feeding_. He is strong because he is gentle. He can be both. Maybe Bucky can be, too.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says quietly. It’s what people say in the movies when they are trying to comfort someone else, or to coax them into opening up and being vulnerable. _It’s okay_ , they lie, even when it’s not actually okay, even when they have no idea what’s going on. Bucky doesn’t know if it’s really okay or not, and it feels strange to say the words without wholeheartedly meaning them. But Peter is his friend, and if this is the vernacular of reassurance, then Bucky will let it sit uncomfortably on his tongue, for Peter.

Peter is running his thumbnail along the edge of the key, his eyes fixed on his hands as he asks, “Do you know what ‘trans’ means?” 

“Only a little, I think,” Bucky says honestly. He gleans bits and pieces of stuff from media and being around the team, but a lot of the nuance of modern life is still beyond his understanding. He’s heard the term before, and he could define it like a dictionary would, but maybe not how Peter needs him to in this moment. It is not something he understands organically, intuitively. “Do you want to explain it to me?”

“I’m a boy,” Peter says, still looking at the key in his hand. “A man, I guess.”

“I know.”

“The body I was born into,” he says haltingly. “It wasn’t...the right one.” The words fall from his lips slowly at first, like he’s reluctant to let them go, like it’s painful to even have them in his mouth, and Bucky understands that something sacred is happening between them in this moment. “And because of it, people didn’t realize I was a boy. But I was, the whole time. And now my body is different, and I’m still the same person I always was, but now people see on the outside what I was on the inside. Does that make any sense?”

“Sure it does,” Bucky says gently, even as his mind is racing, trying to process the emotions that have been raised by Peter’s words, trying not to make it about himself even though he’s still struggling to get past the idea of feeling bad in his body, the badness he’s carried around for so long that sometimes he just wants to choke on it.

 _It’s not about him_. It’s about Peter.

“I wasn’t trying to lie to you,” Peter says, his voice small and even. “Sometimes, people try to act like I’ve been lying by not telling them.

“I don’t think that at all,” Bucky says. He wonder if he should try to physically comfort Peter, a pat on the arm or something. They’re in a car, so they can’t hug. A handshake? “I think you’ve been very, very honest with me, and I think that’s very brave.”

“Sure,” Peter says, and the corner of his mouth turns up, even though his eyes still look kind of wistful and blank. “Do you get it? I can’t tell if you actually get it.”

“I’m not sure,” Bucky says honestly. “But I...I know that you’re a man, and I know it’s important to you that I understand that, but I always have. Always. That wasn’t a question to me.” He looks at Peter to make sure he’s on the right track, and Peter nods, so he keeps talking. “You can tell me anything you want about yourself. You tell me who you are, and I’ll believe you. Like...like you said that you like girls, and I remembered that, and I believe that it’s true because you told me so, and you’re my friend, and I trust you.”

“Thanks,” Peter says softly.

“And I, um. I will probably have to spend some time on Wikipedia to understand some of what you’ve said,” Bucky says slowly, and Peter snorts. “Or another website, if there’s one that’s better.”

“Nothing’s better than Wikipedia,” Peter says. “Jesus, have I taught you nothing?”

“So, yeah. Wikipedia. To make sure I really understand. And if I still have questions, maybe I could come to you? If that’s okay.”

“Sure,” Peter says. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket and jabs at the screen a few times.

Bucky feels his own phone vibrate against his thigh. He looks at the screen to see that Peter has sent him a link to a website called “Ten questions NOT to ask a trans person.”

“Just avoid those, if you don’t mind,” Peter mumbles. “Some shit is personal.”

“Of course,” Bucky says. It’s weird to hear Peter, of all people, talking about personal boundaries, but Bucky will respect that.

“Did I make everything weird between us?” Peter asks suddenly with a very serious expression on his face. “Are you going to look at me differently from now on?”

“No,” Bucky says, and he feels a discomforting kind of sadness at whatever in Peter’s life has even prompted him to ask such a question. “No, I’m gonna look at you exactly the same way I always did. I promise.”

“Okay,” Peter says. He picks up his drink and finishes it, slurping the last few drops with the most obnoxious noise Bucky has ever heard. And Bucky is aggravated by him and endeared by him in the same moment, the way he always has been.

Nothing between the two of them has to change.

*

That night, alone in his bed, Bucky combs the internet for information. He writes down his questions in a notebook, and then he Googles the questions and writes down the answers. And then he writes down new questions. And hours pass, and he feels like maybe he’s only managed to wrap his mind around a piece of it, but still, he’s making progress.

Baby steps. Shuffling down a hallway towards yet another unknown room. He’ll get there when he gets there.

He thinks about Peter, who can be so painfully insecure sometimes, choosing to assert himself in the way that he has. He wonders how much bravery a body can hold. Peter has done something monumental and breathtaking. He has chosen to exist on his own terms, and it’s awe-inspiring.

If Peter can be brave enough to take such a big step, maybe Bucky can be brave enough to take a much smaller step.

He calls Shuri.

“Hello, Princess,” he says when she answers, and the way she grins at him on the video screen fills him with warmth, and with certainty. “My arm feels wrong. Can you help me change it?”

*

The next morning, Bucky wakes up feeling lighter than he has in about eighty years. He gets out of bed and smooths the sheets back into place, fluffing up the pillows like he was never there at all. Something perfect and unruined for him to return to at the end of the day. A cycle restarting anew.

He slides opens the door to his closet, flipping through his few hangers, deciding what to wear for the day. But….

But it’s Sunday.

It’s brunch day. And he’s so warm and cozy in his soft grey sleep-rumpled pajama pants. Everyone else goes to brunch in their pajamas. They always do, and he never does, and he doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t have to keep making the same choices he’s always made. He can make a new choice and try something different today.

He steps out of his room, feels the cool floor beneath his bare feet, and it almost feels like he’s getting away with something. He walks down the hallway, lured by the sounds of his friends and the smell of cooking sausage.

The conversation tapers off as he enters the room, and everyone looks at him.

“What?” he finally says uncomfortably. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe--

“ _Jesus_ , your body,” Clint says, his eyes fixed on the bare skin of Bucky’s torso. “Are you kidding me? Are you actually kidding me with those muscles?”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Clint,” Rhodey says, shaking his head. “He’s a supersoldier.”

“Plus, he runs every day,” Peter says with a grin and a mouthful of cereal. Bucky smiles back at him, taking a seat beside him at the table and accepting a plate of food from Bruce.

“ _I_ run every day,” Sam mutters, pouring two mugs of coffee and handing one to Bucky. “Y’all don’t look at me like that when I take off _my_ shirt.”

“If you looked like that, I would,” Clint says with a shrug. Sam glares at him, and Clint smiles and steals his coffee cup.

It’s surreal to be the focus of so much attention. But no one comments on the arm, which Bucky is grateful for, and then Rhodey starts talking about the Avengers, and they all have much more important matters to focus on.

*

The summer ends. Peter moves to Boston for school, but he texts Bucky so excessively that it’s like he never left. Clint moves to Los Angeles to initiate the West Coast Avengers, and Bucky will join him there soon, but first, he has somewhere else to be.

He walks out of the compound for what he knows will probably be the last time. And even though he knows he will carry his friendships forward into the future, part of him still feels heartbroken. Things change. They always have, they always will, and this summer was something singular and beautiful in his life; it feels appropriate to mourn its ending.

But he’ll go to Boston someday, and he and Peter will go to Starbucks together, and this time, Bucky will pay for their drinks.

And he’ll move to Los Angeles and live with Clint, and they’ll go for runs on the beach, sprinting into the surf whenever they need to cool off. And they’ll help people, and it will matter that Bucky was alive, that he was catapulted through time so that he could be here, now, making a difference.

And in just a few hours, he’ll be in Wakanda. And Shuri will tease him and laugh with him, and then she’ll build him an arm that meets all of his needs, that fits with the kind of man he wants to be from now on. She’ll take off the weapon and give him a tool. He’s always been strong; with time, he can learn to be soft, too.

His life started over in Wakanda once before; maybe he can start over just one more time.

He falls asleep without meaning to, and when he opens his eyes, the jet is touching down. The sun is just beginning to rise, and outside the window, all he sees is color and beauty and possibility, stretching out endlessly before him, and Bucky smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://1000-directions.tumblr.com/post/621860482833399808/title-brothers-in-arms-link-ao3-pairing)


End file.
